


Where it Goes

by DylanOhbrien



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, POV Sheriff Stilinski, Sheriff Stilinski Finds Out, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Sick Derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-23
Updated: 2014-05-23
Packaged: 2018-01-26 04:42:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1675091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DylanOhbrien/pseuds/DylanOhbrien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John realizes that his son might have a boyfriend.</p><p>Or, the times where John realizes there might be something between Stiles and Derek, and he's sort of okay with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where it Goes

**Author's Note:**

> This wasn't actually supposed to be a 5+1 fic, but that's what it ended up being. Sort of (it's more of a 7+1 fic, if that's even a thing). Like, to be completely honest here, I just wanted to write from the Sheriff's POV. And, sick!Derek.
> 
> Also, Stiles is still seventeen in this fic, hence the archive warning.

_i._

When John walks into the living room, Stiles is trying to wrestle a spoonful of what seems to be chicken soup into Derek Hale's firmly shut mouth. It's a sight to behold, truly. Stiles pauses, eyes wide and cheeks flushed red, the spoon still poised in the air. He laughs nervously, letting the spoon fall back to the bowl in his other hand. "There is a very good explanation for this, I swear."

Derek doesn't have the decency to look embarrassed. He's burrowed himself underneath a pile of blankets in the middle of the couch, peaking out through the top of the blankets with beady eyes and a bright pink nose. "Sheriff, hello."

Yeah, that's a sick voice if John ever heard one.

"Hello, Derek," John says slowly with a nod of his head, eyes flitting over from Derek to Stiles, who is fidgeting from his spot next to the couch. "Stiles, can I speak with you for a second, in the kitchen?"

It seems to snap Stiles into motion. He nods his head frantically, calling out, "Yeah, okay sure Daddy-O!" before practically hurdling over the table to get to the kitchen. John shoots Derek a weary look before following Stiles' retreating form into the kitchen. It doesn't really look like Derek is planning on doing much of anything except getting more comfortable on his couch.

Stiles is leaning against the counter, feigning nonchalance. But John knows his son though.

"So, kid, do you wanna tell me why Derek Hale is currently camped out on our couch. or am I going to have to guess?" John asks, and knows that Derek can hear them, which makes everything just a little bit more awkward. John misses the days when he felt like he had at least the semblance of privacy. It made him feel less bad about talking about someone. "Is this like a fever or something? I didn't even know werewolves could get sick."

"Apparently werewolf sicknesses are like, a _thing_ ," Stiles says with a shrug. "Go figure, am I right? Anyway, nobody else in the pack wanted to get infected, so that only left me, Allison, or Lydia as an option for werewolf care duty. Derek doesn't actually trust Allison that much ever since the incident with the daggers, and Lydia scoffed at the mere mention of it, so I stepped up to the plate and now here we are."

"Right. So then you just brought him here without asking me first, then?"

"Well, yeah. You were at work and the place was empty. Perfect for a quarantine zone," Stiles says with a guilty grin. His face falls at John's stern look. "I know I should've probably called you to get the okay, but it's just that Derek kept complaining like a baby that his head hurt, and that made _my_ head hurt, and then it sort of slipped my mind to call."

"It's not like I'm going to make Derek leave," John sighs, rubbing his eyes with his hand. "The poor kid looks so sick I'm afraid he might die if I tried to make him so much as stand. Just―try not to cause too much trouble, okay? I know how much of a mother hen you can be when someone get sick."

"I resent that," Stiles objects. "I do not _mother_."

John's eyebrows lift and he side eyes the kitchen, taking in the mess Stiles had obviously created in an attempt to make chicken soup especially for Derek. There's potato peels and bits of carrots scattered across the counter, and all of the spices in the house seem to have found their way onto the counter as well and are just laying there. Over the stove, John spots the soup itself, it's delicious scent wafting up to his nose.

"Sure, kid," John snorts. "Keep telling yourself that."

"I don't," Stiles says firmly, crossing his arms and pouting. That lasts for all of two seconds until Derek's voice wafts through the kitchen entrance, sounding croaky and uncertain as he calls out for Stiles. Stiles drops his arms to his sides and glances at John wearily before the Sheriff just nods his head in permision. Stiles smiles sheepishly and leaves to go see what Derek needs.

The corner of John's lip curls and he goes upstairs.

 

 

 

_ii._

When John ventures back downstairs a couple of hours later, ready to head back to work for his next shift, the kitchen has been mostly put back in order, and the soup has been moved into the fridge. There's an empty bowl and a spoon sitting in the kitchen sink, meaning Stiles probably managed to get some of the soup into Derek's stomach.

When he moves back into the living room he sees something, well, something interesting. Derek is still laying on the couch, body wrapped in at least three blankets. He's laying on his side, curled into himself, mostly hidden by the blankets. John can see his messy hair poking out from underneath the covers though, as well as his sock clad feet poking out from the other end. He's sleeping, John can tell, breathing ragged and slow.

It's not really Derek what catches his attention though.

Stiles is sprawled out on the floor next to the couch, arms bracing himself on the edge. His head is leaning against the couch, face plastered against one of the cushions, right next to Derek's head. He's sleeping too, chest rising and falling slowly. Stiles' hand is resting next to Derek's head, and John can tell that Stiles probably fell asleep while running his hand through Derek's hair.

They look comfortable. Intimate, even. John isn't exactly sure how to respond.

There is an old eighties movie is playing on the television, the volume set very low so as to not disturb the pair. John can see the remote on the floor next to Stiles, and he moves over to pick it up so he can turn it off and leave them.

"I'm sorry."

Derek's face pops out from under the blanket, flushed and sleepy.

John raises his brows at Derek in confusion. "What about?"

"About being here without your permission," Derek says gruffly, and John can tell he's probably embarrassed. At least he thinks, because with the flush already on his face, John isn't sure.

He sighs. "If I didn't want you here, then you wouldn't be here, son."

Derek doesn't look particularly convinced though. His face looks pinched, actually. "Right, but―"

Stiles' hand clamps over Derek's mouth loosely in an attempt to get him to stop speaking. Derek does quiet down though, looking at Stiles curiously. "Shh, be quiet," Stiles mumbles sleepily, his voice sounding muffled by the cushion. "J'st go back to sleep, Der. We'll talk about this in the morning, m'kay?"

When Stiles' hand slips from his mouth and plops back down on the couch, Derek blinks at him with a sort of fondness before glancing back up at John. "Okay."

"I'm going to work," John tells the two, even though he's mostly sure Sties is already half asleep. "You two gonna be okay?"

Stiles lifts his head from the cushion (there's a red mark across his cheek, the small grooves of the cushion imprinted to the side of his face) and shoots his father a sleepy smile. "We'll be fine," he says, eyes flitting over to Derek and― _oh boy_. John heaves out an internal sigh, because of course his son doesn't make things easy for anyone. "Have fun at work."

 

 

 

_iii._

After his shift, John makes his way back to the house to find it with a single occupant, rather than the two when he left. Stiles is sleeping on the couch where Derek had previously been, but John can't find the werewolf anywhere. The blankets are all folded neatly on the coffee table, save for one that is currently draped across Stiles' abdomen, as if someone had put it there after Stiles had fallen asleep.

"Hey, kid," John calls, lip quirking up when Stiles flails on the couch and almost slips off, the blanket wrapping around him like a snake.

"Huh?" Stiles asks with a yawn. He's looking at John with a confused glare, rapidly blinking away the sleep in his eyes.

"Derek leave?"

"Hm," Stiles' brows furrow and he looks around the room as if he just noticed Derek wasn't in it. Then he pouts. honest-to-God pouts. John honestly can't believe it. "Yeah, I guess. His fever broke a few hours ago, so then he sort of manhandled me onto the couch and forced me to sleep. Said I needed it more than him. Wow, what a liar, he told me he wasn't going to leave."

John raises an eyebrow at his son's crude language, but decided against saying something about it. That's when John noticed the post-it note stuck to the side of Stiles' hoodie. He can make out something scribbled on it with dark ink. "Uh, Stiles?" John says, pointing to the note. Stiles blinks curiously and look down, peeling the note off his hoodie.

"Couldn't stay, sorry. Also, the soup was good, D," Stiles reads out loud, and then he grins. It's a dopey grin, one John hasn't seen since Stiles got over Lydia. "What a dork."

John groans because Stiles has no idea, does he?

(No, of course not.)

 

 

 

_iv._

The pack (John still has trouble calling it that, but Stiles has enthusiastically adopted the title to refer to their not-so-little group of misfits) decides that they want to eat a dinner together. Why, John isn't particularly sure, because he's positive it will end in disaster, but he's giving in to their whim anyway. Which is how he finds himself in the middle of a supermarket with half of the pack.

Scott has gone off to the butcher to try to find some sort of meat for this dish his mother wanted to make, taking Isaac with him. Lydia and Allison are looking through the candy aisle, and John isn't actually sure where Boyd and Erica ran off to. Jackson and Kira stay with him, for some reason John can't exactly figure out, talking happily about how happy they are to be so close to graduating.

Derek and Stiles are arguing over tomatoes. John watches them with a quirked lip. Stiles is holding a bunch of tomatoes in his arms, and Derek is trying―and failing spectacularly―to convince Stiles to put all the tomatoes down and be rational about things. John can see where he's coming from, but this is Stiles, and if Derek thinks he can sway the younger boy, then he has another thing coming.

"I'm buying all of these tomatoes and you can't stop me."

"Stiles, think about it for a―"

"No."

There's a frown on Derek's lips, but John can see the twinkle of amusement in his eyes.

 

 

 

_v._

Stiles and Derek sit next to each other during dinner, shoulders brushing the entire time they eat. John pretends not to notice the way Stiles' cheeks flush or how the tips or Derek's ears are pink.

 

 

 

_vi._

Derek gets taken by the fae, and John isn't particularly surprised when Stiles loses his sense of calm and starts freaking out. He's spent the past hour pacing the length of the loft, hands constantly moving, twisting together or running through his hair or face. There are beads of sweat against his forehead, and John is willing to bet that if he felt his son's pulse, it would be racing.

"Stiles," John says, putting a hand on Stiles' arm. It succeeds in stopping Stiles from moving, and he looks at his father with panicked eyes. "Calm down. We'll get him back, okay? We'll get him back."

Stiles nods mutely. "Yeah. Yeah, I know."

"Listen, when we find him, tell him," John says, and he knows he's advocating something illegal, but he'll be damned before he keeps Stiles from happiness. Or Derek, because God knows that kid deserves a piece of happiness in his life. "You don't want to go through another one of these situations knowing you didn't give you two the best chance."

"Dad?" His voice is soft, uncertain.

"Tell him how you feel."

"You're okay with this?" Stiles asks slowly.

John sighs. "I honestly don't know, kid. But I'm not going to be the reason you're unhappy."

A small smile find its way onto Stiles' face, and John just counts his blessings.

 

 

 

_vii._

They kill the fae and save Derek. He's bruised and bloody, and has a few broken bones, but he's alive and breathing and that's all that matters right now. And when Stiles pulls him into a frantic hug, pressing tightly against him, John pretends not to hear when Stiles whisper, "I almost lost you, I can't believe I almost fucking lost you. Never do that do me again, Der."

He also pretends not to notice the small smile on Derek's face when he says "I'm sorry, Stiles", or when Stiles' head tilts up to kiss him on the mouth.

 

 

 

_viii._

"Son, I think it's time we had a talk."

"Yeah, what about?"

"Are you and Derek having sex?"

"Oh my God."

Okay, so he doesn't ignore everything. He's a doting father, can you really blame him?


End file.
